Have yourself a merry little Snappymack Christmas . . .

You want gems? Go to Africa--just watch out for the conflict diamonds.

Better still, if you want some real holiday gems, some "'Jesus H. Christ!' is the reason for the season" banter and barter, go visit my friend Snappymack's world at Another Friggin' Blog.

La Snappy is the responsible party here--she got me bloggin' almost a year ago, and she does it quite well--at least when she's not pissin' off the Insane Hairstylist Posse with commentaries on their dippity-don'ts. She's accurately and funnily relating the holiday for us all, much better than I can this year.

Me, I'm having a rather Swedish holiday this year. No, I haven't set my head on fire while playing with my Saint Lucia's wreath or gotten wasted on some lingonberry-laced Absolut and sung ABBA's "Happy New Year" 'til I'm hoarse and more obnoxious than usual. Rather my holiday so far is like the country that gave us Ace of Base and Volvos--that is to say, boringly pleasant and good at surviving crash tests.

I've picked out the gifts and mailed all but one (forthcoming Fouchat). I have a few items to wrap and some cards to send, but even that's under control. However, as my friend Vegas Texan (i.e., The Artist Formerly Known as Jean Naté and Now Known as Jean Naté Again and please don't ask me to explain 'cause none of has that many years left on the planet) commented the other night on the phone, "[The Gladman] and I think the end of the world is nigh because you've mailed out your gifts and we've received them well before New Year's."

Too true. All too true.

[Sotto voce] *Bitch.*

Why, I've even mailed my gifts to my parents and sister in Kansas instead of having to carry them on the plane home *and* hand-delivered mine to my brother and his wife in Virginia a full week-and-a-half ahead of time. Oh, the stuff going to Canada and England probably won't make it in time for Boxing Day, but that's what them thar folks git fer celebratin' them hoity-toity, Commonwealth holidays.

Frankly, if you're like me and don't put too much faith in Christmas miracles, well, darlings, here's your sign. Repent now! Then duck and cover, 'cause it stands to reason that the proverbial glitter-bedazzled horse hocky is about to hit the seasonal, fairy-lighted fan. And the sound said horse hocky makes hitting the wall is to the tune of "Carol of the Bells."

I still have the social quagmire of work gifts to get through (who? when? how much? must I?), plus two rides through O'Hare, coming and going. Anything could happen. It could be another "Hard Candy Christmas" for me--with the hard candy referenced being that which is stuck to my face after falling asleep on an especially "earth-scented" and well-trod carpet at a major international airport on Christmas Eve.

But maybe my miracle this season is to have a lovely time without too much stress or aggro--and somehow still manage to escape the wrath of the gods (any gods, all gods--hey, I'm an equal opportunity accidental blasphemer most days, Merry Eid, Joyeux Diwali, and all that) despite the risk of coming off bored and self-satisfied.

Anyway, whatever, go read Snappymack's blog for a mo', while I finish wrapping these gifts--and, oh, say, start trying to make intricate origami ornaments out of sheet metal or create a new type of snickerdoodle, which I'll stay up all night baking and storing in containers I've hand-carved from trees I felled in my own private forest. Anything, chipmunks, to up the drama of the season. Can't be happy for too long. Wouldn't be very Christian of me.

The best of the season to you and yours, dear readers. Unless something weird happens, something crazy and out of the blue, like, I dunno, George Bush enters rehab and Miss USA decides to send more troops to Iraq, or vice versa--you know, something totally whack--you'll find me roasting my chestnuts by an open fire, Jack Daniels and Chinotto nipping at my nose, and sans wireless connection and laptop, until at least after Christmas.

* * *

Editor's note: The image is of the painting, Lucia, by Swedish artist Carl Larsson. Looking for a last-minute gift for ol' Rappylicious? I'm sure there must be a lovely catalogue raisonné for Mr. Larsson out there somewhere on Amazon.se.

'Tis the season

As must be obvious to everyone, I have had no time to write lately. Not sure why that’s the case, other than spending most of my free time shopping, wrapping, mailing, flailing, etc., like hundreds of millions of other capitalists in this country this time of year. Oh well, at least I'm not alone in jumping out the plane without a parachute, free-falling toward Splatsville and Target Bankruptcy. Or, as is more the case with me, Macy's Bankruptcy.

Only the best that the Midstate can sell, darlings, only the best.

Still, one or two of my readers—or perhaps I should say, my one or two readers—have started to comment and complain. Surely I can be relied upon for some holiday hijinx and seasonal sarcasm, no? I'm so good at it (or rather, consistent at it) every other time of year.

Mea culpa, possums.

So expect something more filling and sustaining than this appetizer, at least before New Year's. I have some bits and bobs that I’m trying to stuff into a gay goose of a posting on the joys of secular humanism for the holidays, as well as some baked-into-a-casserole leftover commentary on Canada vs. North Carolina.

(The latter isn't a hockey night round-up, I promise. Go 'Canes.)

But, honestly, after you’ve seen pictures of Britney Spears’ hoo-ha spread all over the internet, there really isn’t much left to say or do.

Other than swilling another cup of some Everclear-laced eggnog and maligning another Christmas carol--say, for example, "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus, Some Strange Men at a Party, Paris Hilton, Paris's Teacup Chihuahua, and the Living Wisemen and Sheep in a Nativity Scene at the Church Down the Road"--into something lewd and lascivious.

And, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I don't even have time for *that.*